


The Lawman, the Thief, and the Outlaw

by snowbellewells



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Western
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowbellewells/pseuds/snowbellewells
Summary: Sheriff Killian Jones has done his best to leave behind a troubled past and bring law and order to the town of Blanchard Ridge. However, when he upholds his duty in the face of the most feared and dangerous outlaw gang in the area, allies are few and he dreads trapping them in the same situation he finds himself. The small Western town is about to become a powder keg, and one lawman, his deputies, and a resourceful woman too stubborn for her own good are all that stand in the way of bloodshed and lawlessness...
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones & Emma Swan, Prince Charming | David Nolan/Snow White | Mary Margaret Blanchard
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Here we are, at long last!! I am so excited to present the Rio Bravo AU I have been thinking about and wanting to write for so long. As we are now just a little under three weeks away from Netflix’s “Heartstrings” and seeing Colin as a cowboy, I had to get going on this and channel that excitement. If you have ever seen the old John Wayne/Dean Martin/Ricky Nelson/Walter Brennan Western “Rio Bravo”, then this will follow a lot of the basic plot points, though I will take some of my own twists and turns as well. I definitely have to give it some inspirational credit, as well as @theonceoverthinker for her help with a few plot issues I was trying to wrangle, and for the lovely ladies on the Discord chat: @kmomof4 @profdanglaiss @ultraluckycatnd @darkcolinodonorgasm @alma/teamhook @wellhellotragic for helping me with title suggestions.  
Please enjoy, and I’d love to hear what you think of this opening!!)

Sun beat down brutal and unyielding from the hot August afternoon sky onto the packed dirt of Main Street in Blanchard Ridge while the town was sleepy and still; not even the bark of a dog or the clop of hooves from a passing rider disturbed the dusty hours before the evening meal. The stage was due in at four, but as far as Killian Jones’ sharp gaze could reach from where he sat, chair tilted back on the wooden slats of the porch, appearing relaxed and lazy, nothing moved in the time of the ‘siesta’ as their neighbors just a few hours south in Pioche would call it. 

Though all appeared normal - more still than normal, even - in the sleepy little town he was meant to watch after, Jones was not about to drop his guard; he had learned long ago that calm could turn to chaos on a dime, and he aimed to be ready when the storm came. Idly, he flicked his pocket knife along the grain of the whittling stick he worked as he sat surveying the nearly deserted street, hoping to convey boredom despite every sense being keenly attuned, nerves jangling in a way that warned him something was coming - even if he didn’t yet know what it might be. He hadn’t survived as long as he had, nor gained the reputation he possessed, by growing careless, and he trusted his instincts. He slowly let his hand slide down casually, almost without notice, making certain his favorite Colt Single Action was in its holster, before going back to the soft humming and carving he’d employed since he took up his seat just past the noonday meal, upon his return from lunch at the Nolans’, and since his deputy, Scarlet, had taken off for the afternoon. 

Reflecting for a moment as he watched heat shimmer in waves before his eyes, Jones knew that he was far from the typical lawman, even in these rough territories, and the irony of his ending up here wasn’t lost on him. He didn’t give himself leave to think much on the twists and turns his life had taken, and he tried not to waste much time debating whether or not he deserved the opportunity and trust he had been granted, seeing as how neither did anyone a lick of good. But on long, lonesome afternoons such as this one, when the parched brown earth and flat, monotonous chaparral stretched before him as far as the eye could see - such a contrast from the verdant rolling hills and cool breezes of Ireland, from whence he’d immigrated with his father and brother more years ago than he could rightly count - he did sometimes wonder how he had wound up here in the desert. He was a haunted man, and he didn’t like to leave the gate open to thoughts of the past any longer than he could help it, so he slammed it closed before they could go much further. Suffice to say, he’d been offered a second chance on the right side of the law, to be part of something that wouldn’t lead to jail, lynching, or death in some back alley from a knife in the back, and he had taken it.

There was only one inmate in the jail behind him, but it was one more than usual in the peaceful settlement where folks generally got along and abided by the few simple laws there were. It had him on edge, this Felix Nightshade in their cells, and it was why he had sent Will out for a few hours when he had, so they would both be around once night fell. They’d bunk in the jail, just to be cautious. Nightshade himself might only be a bank and stagecoach robber, interchangeable with any other, but word had it that he was the lieutenant to Pan Malcolm himself, the feared and bloodthirsty outlaw who had lead the notorious Lost Boys gang terrorizing the state for some years. Killian expected a rescue attempt to come before the Federal Marshals came to fetch Nightshade and take him into custody, and if so, he reckoned they would strike under cover of darkness. It was what he would do himself.

He was standing to stretch his long legs and lean frame from the stiffness of sitting in one position for too long when the ground beneath his feet began to tremble and there was a rumbling sound like distant thunder suddenly drawing near. A cloud of dust kicked up on the horizon and drew ever closer, until Killian began to think that he had been wrong to surmise his adversary would wait for nightfall, when he recognized what was coming. His stance eased and his hand once more slid away from his six shooter as ‘yips’ and ‘haws’ rang out with the sound of hooves and the lowing of cattle. A train was driving their herd into town.

From under the awning, the sheriff waited to see if he knew any of the riders, but it was the distinctive brand on the cows themselves as they jostled into view taking up the whole street in a lumbering river, that let him know whose livestock had arrived. The ornate “O” interlocked with a “Q” told him the whole lot of them were a former compadre of his, Robin Sherwood’s, and coming from his ranch out on the Rio Bravo river, a prime bit of real estate that had been in his second wife’s family for generations. Another former immigrant, and once ne’er-do-well like Killian himself, Rob had found love, married a powerful heiress and become one of the most prominent cattle ranchers around, going respectable with impressive style and giving his spread the name Outlaw’s Queen. Jones didn’t know Rob’s wife all that well, didn’t even see his friend that often, as the ride out to their land was long and he didn’t often give himself days off, but she was rumored to be quite the lady. Robin truly did treat her as royalty… and was happy to do so.

Chuckling, Killian moved forward as the herd cleared through, driven into the holding pens down by the livery kept for such wagon trains passing through, then came down the steps to meet Sherwood as he swung from the saddle, smiling widely and already calling out a greeting. The rest of his riders, including the young orphan he had taken under his wing upon hiring him as a ranch hand back in the spring, moved the cattle on, slowing them as they neared the large corral and began to guide them through the gate.

Killian had started down the weathered plank steps of the boardwalk to the packed dirt of the street, and already had his hand out to shake Rob’s, even as his old friend moved forward in a similar fashion, when the loud crack of a gunshot ran clearly in the afternoon air. Even over the lowing and stamping of the herd, the sound was unmistakable, ricocheting off the buildings and startling everyone nearby, who ducked instinctively. Unfortunately, the bullet had already found a target. Whether its intended one or not, the damage was the same, and Robin Sherwood listed to the side horribly, crashing to his knees at the foot of the steps, his hand going almost dazedly to where blood was already seeping through his shirts at the ribs.

“Rob!” Killian called out an alarmed warning too late to do the other man any good. Even as Killian hurried the last few steps to where his friend was slumped in the street, still breathing, though painfully labored, but unable to right himself from his knees where he had crumpled. “Mate, hang on,” Jones added fervently, as he knelt to survey the damage. Where the bullet had entered, if it had exited cleanly or was still inside, played a huge part in what could be done for the rancher. And even as he looked, Killian was also remaining in a crouch himself, hoping to make as small a target as possible for the unseen gunman, and keep an eye on their surroundings in case more shots were yet to come.

Chaos had erupted around them at the crack of the gunshot; the straggling cows not yet in the corral threatened to stampede in fright, and the rest of Sherwood’s riders darted here and there, whooping and hollering to keep their animals in line. All except one of them -

Killian swallowed back an unwanted lump of emotion trying to burn its way up his throat at the sound of young Henry’s cracked voice crying out an anguished “No!” over the melee, his horse thundering up to the hitching post near them and his gangly legs swinging into Killian’s view as he dismounted and slid to his knees beside them, looking to the sheriff for some sort of reassurance. Killian honestly didn’t know if it was the living hope still alight in the youth’s wide brown eyes - not yet having lived long enough in the crooked old world to have lost faith in things turning out alright - or if it was the vivid flash of horrific memory, bringing his brother’s pained face, as he last remembered seeing it, swimming with ghastly clarity before his eyes too quickly for him to fully shutter it away. Jones didn’t have time for sentiment; the shooter needed to be found. He also needed to be certain no other citizens were hurt, and see to Rob’s wounds once the dust settled. It looked as though the injury had been a clean through-and-through shot, and if he could get Sherwood to Nolan’s without his losing too much blood, he thought David’s pretty, fresh-faced wife: cook, seamstress, and pretty much anything else a person could call for, could stitch him up while they got Doc Hopper to make sure no infection set in. 

The melee around them seemed to be settling down; the riders herding the rest of the cattle into the pen safely and no further shots coming from wherever the assailant’s hiding place had been. The thought that the bullet in Rob’s side had quite probably had his own name on it, was another thing Killian Jones had no time to ruminate on. Clearly the shooter had turned tail when they’d botched the job of taking the Sheriff out of commission, and ridden back for further instructions rather than risking discovery. From what Jones had heard of Malcolm and the precision with which he expected his orders to be followed, the law man reckoned that bloke had every bit as unpleasant a few hours in front of him as Robin did with people poking and prodding at his side.

Pushing all his numerous worries and concerns back for the moment, Killian met the eyes of the lanky young man before him, “Henry, isn’t it?”

The boy nodded, not saying anything, but acknowledging the sheriff’s words with a determined furrow of his brow, trying manfully to hold in his obvious fear and worry for his adopted father. Killian was grateful for the youth’s gumption, even if he hated asking more yet. He knew well how much Sherwood must mean to the lad. When Henry had arrived in town back in the spring, by far the oldest child on the Orphan Train that had driven through seeking homes to take their charges in, it had been clear that a boy of nearly fourteen was not the age most childless families were hoping to start out with. Robin, however, having lost a first wife and young son who would have been about Henry’s age to the influenza years prior, hadn’t hesitated for a second when Killian had mentioned the boy’s plight to him. It did some good to even Jones’ toughened and grizzled outlook on the world to see that the arrangement had worked out better than he could have hoped. Aiming to put some semblance of encouragement in his tone he added, “I think he’ll recover if we can stop the bleeding and get him sewn up,” he offered. 

Moving to brace Robin on one side, and gesturing Henry to do the same under his arm on the right, between the two of them they got Sherwood to his feet, thought unsteadily and leaning on their combined strength. In a shuffling walk they had soon guided him across the way to the inn and restaurant, finding its proprietor, David Nolan, already at the door and coming to help usher them in to safety, his petite, dark-headed wife Mary right behind.

In a better moment, Killian might have shaken his head and laughed at the pair of them, never far from one another and both with hearts as wide as the Rio Grande itself, always trying to do what they could for anyone in need who came to their door. He’d had Mary’s cool, soft hands fluttering over him more than once after some on-the-job injury in the line of duty, and so he knew the woman must already be itching to get her hands on Rob and do what she could to ease his pain.

To speak his mind plainly, Killian would have been forced to admit that he’d often wondered how two people as fine as the Nolans, whose very nature and bearing spoke of class and manners unheard of this far West, had ended up in this rugged New Mexican outpost. They both were too kind, too open and trusting for their own good, and Killian spent more time than he would admit to hoping they weren’t robbed or taken advantage of by whatever rough characters might come riding through. Yet beneath the surface, where he sensed there may once have been a sheltered, easy life that would never have been enough for either one of them, he had long since decided the pair must have a wealth of strength he hadn’t at first been able to see. They’d come to Blanchard Ridge and opened the inn not long after Killian had pinned on the Sheriff’s badge, and neither one seemed to have a thought in their heads towards leaving. 

Once they got Rob laid out on a bed in the closest possible empty room, Mary began preparing hot water, clean washcloths, and other materials she needed, while her husband set out with the young ranchhand to fetch the Doctor. Sherwood had clung to his senses as long as possible, but he seemed to be drifting away from awareness, now that he was settled and had reached relative safety. Killian made sure the lady had no need of his assistance, to which she shooed him away to go watch for the others’ return.

Striding out in the main dining area, Jones set up watch at the door, not as much for the doctor, Nolan, and Henry as to see what was happening in the main street. Gunfire was as unusual as he could possibly make it in the center of their small outpost, and so after the ruckus of the last hour the dirt thoroughfare was deserted, people having no wish to be caught in the crossfire - whatever was going on.

His first instinct, the gunfighter’s fire within that had pushed him along until settling there and seeking out a modicum of peace, even if he had to keep it himself, had him edgy, chomping at the bit to get out after the culprit firing on himself or his townspeople in broad daylight. But the lawman he had become had to allow his temper to subside; he couldn’t lash out with the need for vengeance and retaliation. And, if the shot hadn’t been meant to kill him outright, then it had no doubt been meant to send him chasing after shadows rather than staying on guard with his prisoner awaiting the Federal Marshall.

The only thing that was stirring as he continued to stare out at the street before him was the cloud of dust drawing closer and signalling the arrival of the four o’clock stagecoach. They pulled up down the way by the post office, before heading on to the livery, for those horses to be watered, brushed down, and a new team hitched up before the stage headed on to the next settlement. One rider jumped down from up top to run the mail pouch in to the postmaster. The whole routine carried on exactly as usual, until a dainty booted foot stepped out onto the wooden boardwalk from inside the stage. A deep green traveling dress, accented in places with an overlay of black lace, drew his eye up to a stunning, pale feminine face, a strong chin and pert little nose, though the rest of the unknown woman’s visage was hidden by an artfully tilted hat with wide brim to shade her face. Now that was unusual; visitors to the Ridge were exceedingly rare.

He tried to move on from the arrestingly lovely sight, as the woman surveyed her surroundings and then began walking in his direction towards the inn, an enticing sway in her step. No call to be gawping at her like some untried greenhorn, no matter how long it had been since -- No, no time for those thoughts either. He was standing lookout over the main way in and out of town, the jail, and his friend; that was more than enough to focus on.

However, as the lady neared the entrance, Killian did open the door for her, touching the brim of his hat slightly, with an easy dip of his chin and a simple, “Afternoon, Ma’am.” 

She raised her head enough for beguiling green eyes to be seen from beneath her own chapeau. They twinkled with some bit of mischief and humor, as she replied, “Why thank you, Sheriff,” with a pointed glance to his badge. “Good afternoon to you.” She then brushed by him so closely that he felt her warmth, making the small hairs on his arm stand on end, and caught the inviting scent of apple blossom, and the cold mix of leather and cinnamon along with it.

Was it only an hour or so ago that the town had appeared sleepily uneventful? Sheriff Killian Jones sensed now that his trouble was just starting, and in more ways than one.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, was "J.J. Sneed" inspiring, or what? I find myself wanting to solely focus on writing Killian in Westerns all the time now! ;) Sorry to have kept you all waiting, but I know right where Chapter Three will pick up now, and I have a holiday break coming, so hopefully this one will be followed shortly! Until then, please enjoy...

Mere minutes passed before Sheriff Jones heard the hurried pounding of booted feet along the boardwalk where Doc Hopper kept his office three buildings down from the Nolans’ inn. Dave and the boy hadn’t wasted any time fetching the doctor, for which Killian was glad, and as the three of them drew close, he merely held open the saloon-style swinging door and motioned them through. One last glance around the long, hot main drag showed things to be as quiet and deserted as they had seemed before the cattle train rode in. One would never guess a man had been shot down where he stood not even a half hour ago if he didn’t already know it. Killian knew he wouldn’t see anything helpful out there at that point, but he didn’t have to like it. All the same, he turned with impotent frustration sticking in his craw to follow the others inside.

The room where Robin was lying had gotten fairly crowded, between Mary Nolan standing back with a washbasin of red-tinged water and blood-stained towel in hand, looking worried but as if she had managed to staunch the flow of blood, along with her husband, Henry, and the doc all crowded in. Killian didn’t have much choice but to observe from the doorway, without making the space so tight Hopper couldn’t do his job.

He had thought Rob was well out of it, unaware of the proceedings, and probably for the best at that, until Hopper probed the edge of the bullet wound and he flinched, body curling inward in self-preservation and letting out a pained growl at the treatment.

“Apologies, Mr. Sherwood,” Hopper murmured, glancing up to meet the cattleman’s eyes with a look of chagrin at the discomfort he was causing. The doc was not by nature outgoing, but more soft-spoken and reserved. If Killian had not _ seen _ Hopper save more than one life with his own eyes, he might’ve even appeared incapable with the seeming uncertainty his manners displayed. Time and experience had shown Jones otherwise though, and he had no doubt that Rob was in the best possible hands this far West. Still, it was clear that the bespectacled and ginger haired physician hated inducing pain, even if it was necessary for the treatment and for healing to begin.

To his credit, Sherwood merely nodded his understanding and grit his teeth against further pained outbursts. His eyelids fluttered somewhat hazily, but he remained conscious, if not terribly alert. Killian would venture to guess that it was not the first time the other man had been patched up from a bullet wound. They had never avidly compared scars, but he knew enough to recognize another person with a similarly checkered past, and there had certainly been times long before his stint as a lawman in a frontier outpost when he had stared down the wrong end of a six shooter. 

Thankfully, before too much longer, the doc was able to ascertain that the bullet had exited cleanly, had disinfected the entry and exit points, and stitched Robin back together as neatly as Killian had ever seen it done. Robin had succumbed to the shock and blood loss and slid into a fitful doze, but not before making it clear to Killian that once he was mobile again, he would help the sheriff in whatever way needed to bring those outlaws to justice.

His young hand, Henry, and Killian had both chuckled at that, knowing Sherwood meant the words he spoke, but also that he would have a hard time following through. Lady Sherwood would undoubtedly have something to say about him chasing desperadoes, and she would be far from happy. Rob would be lucky not to have his head bitten off before his injury had even healed.

Yet, by the same turn, it seemed that the day’s events had galvanized more than the injured rancher himself to action. The wide-eyed young man Sherwood had taken under his wing was ready to do no less than sign up as a deputy then and there, not intending to let the attack on his boss and father figure go unanswered. Killian could certainly stand to have an extra gun in his corner. If Henry was any good, and rumor had it he was - startlingly so - then it might be a definite advantage indeed. Still, he wouldn’t have one so innocent and untried blackening his soul on a whim either. This standoff with Malcolm would get ugly before it was through; Killian knew that in his gut, just as he knew the sun would rise each morning and sink again each night. Something about Henry reminded him of the blissfully ignorant immigrant boy he’d been long ago, drinking in all the sights of a new land spread out before him, with Liam still comfortingly at his side, and dreams of the adventure they’d have, the heroes’ journey on which they had been about to embark. He hated to see that spark of hope and belief go out of such trusting eyes if he could do anything to prevent it.

Again fighting off the flashes of old memory - dredged up for the second time in one day, what was coming over him? - Killian refocused his attention on Hopper telling them that barring any infection and Sherwood taking enough time to recover from the blood loss, he should make a full recovery. After informing them that he would be back the next day to check in, and nodding to them all as he stood, the doc moved to see himself out, followed closely by Mary Nolan, who clearly meant to dispose of the soiled rags and dump the water in her tub, but was thanking him for coming as they exited the room.

Killian followed them quietly, hat in hand as they moved into the inn’s main bar and dining area. He would see Doc Hopper later in his offices about the bill for Robin’s treatment. He certainly didn’t want word getting out that Blanchard Ridge was a town which couldn’t take care of its own, where a man could be gunned down in the street and no one would pay any mind. For the moment however, his larger focus was on catching up to Mary and inquiring as to whether or not there were rooms available to put up the rancher and his crew for a few days while Sherwood recuperated. They could bill it to the Sheriff’s office if need be, but again, it only seemed right.

He followed her through the staff doors to the kitchen, watching the petite, dark-haired spitfire of a woman bustle across the room to toss the basin’s contents out the back door onto the dry, New Mexico dirt, turning it yet more crimson. When she whipped around to get back to work, drying her hands on her apron, he accidentally startled her into jumping anxiously he was following so closely on her heels.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, one hand flying up to cover her heart at the start he had given her. “Killian! I didn’t know you were there!”

“Sorry,” he offered, giving her a dip of his chin in further apology, and finding that his hand made its way of its own accord to scratch behind one ear, a sheepish mannerism of which he seemed unable to rid himself. “Wasn’t trying to give you a scare… I only wanted to inquire if you had room here to put up Sherwood and the boy - and any of his riders who aren’t moving on as well. We’ll see that you and David are compensated, of course.”

Taking him by surprise, the inn’s proprietress fluttered her hand at him in dismissal of the offered pay. “Nonsense!” she hushed, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he was a world-weary and rough cowboy who stood a head taller than her at least. Instead, her manner reminded him more of someone affectionately scolding a wayward child. “You’ll do no such thing. David and I will see that he’s properly looked after. It’s the least we can do, seeing as how we  _ are  _ an inn. That poor man certainly can’t be expected to sit a horse and ride on home just after being shot.”

She moved about the large, open room as she spoke, pulling out vegetables, pots, and pans (no doubt needing to begin planning the next day’s menu for guests) and wiping down the counter as she spoke. When Killian didn’t offer any further response, Mary Nolan glanced up to study his expression, then came forward to press his hand between both of her small, cool palms and grace him with an understanding smile as she tilted her head back to look into his eyes.

“Killian,” she said, softly, making sure he digested her words when she paused for emphasis. “You have more than enough to worry about - what with Malcolm and his henchmen, trying to keep everyone safe… That’s more than enough for one man - no matter how capable!” she rushed to add with an indulgent chuckle when she saw him opening his mouth to correct her. “More than enough for one lawman to be getting along with. You let David and I see to our guests. It’s what we can do to help.”

A smile played at the corners of Jones’ mouth at her words, touched by the sentiment of them, and that she and her husband would understand and appreciate what he was trying to do enough that they would wish to help if they could. Letting a lazy smirk raise his smile at one end along with a wink of his deep blue eyes, Killian reached up to hold the brim of his Stetson between his thumb and forefinger, tipping his hat to her with every bit of playfully rakish charm he possessed. “Why, thank you, Lady Nolan,” he drawled. “Much obliged to you, Ma’am.”

“Oh posh,” she huffed out, shooing him from her kitchen with a corresponding attitude of playful exasperation, even as he could see a bright pink flush rising high on her usually pale alabaster cheeks. “Get on out of here, you rascal! I have work to do!”

Chuckling good naturedly, Killian followed her directives as she hustled him from the kitchen, knowing he needed to get back to the jail, ascertain if Scarlet had returned, and see to their prisoner. He would find his way back shortly for the evening meal.

But, once he left the kitchen and crossed the main dining area, his eyes were inevitably drawn toward the guests’ parlor where a cozy fire burned in the hearth, a merry tune was being plucked out by someone on the piano out of sight in the corner, and the pleasant hum of conversation filled the air. Most evenings found at least two or three card games going in the inn’s sitting room, and that night seemed to be no exception. The difference that immediately drew his eye was the vision seated at one of the tables facing toward him in the doorway, dealing out the next hand like she’d been born with a deck in her grasp. The pretty newcomer from the stage earlier that day - all bright blond hair, now refreshed and styled from the long, dusty ride that afternoon and falling down over her shoulders in lustrous, cascading waves. The jade of her eyes was practically crackling with bright enthusiasm as the next round of poker commenced, and she kept pace with every man seated around her, clearly relishing the competition.

Transfixed in spite of the nightly duties calling his name back at the jail, Killian paused, drinking in the sight of the woman whose arrival both tempted and teased him in a way he didn’t fully understand. The trim smart cut of her evening dress made his eye linger almost unwillingly as he took in the way its dove grey skirt clung to her slender but still shapely form. He didn’t aim to ogle her like some ruffian, but it was hard to keep his gaze as respectful as he would like when the sedate, muted color of the fitted skirt gave way to the deep, eye-catching garnet of the bodice cut distractingly low in the bosom, and deliciously snug at the tiny waist. It was almost more than a simple man could bear, if he were being honest. And he didn’t know if the particular dress was meant for the purpose of distracting her fellow players that night, or if the lady was just aware of what style most suited her, but she was clearly not afraid to use her assets to her advantage. Sheriff and honorable man or no, Killian Jones found himself rather grateful, whatever her reason, and as he traced the tip of his tongue across his lower lip, he could barely pull his gaze away.

She appeared to have drawn a winning hand, he mused as she gathered the chips of the first loser at her table to fold. A soft, small smile teased at his lips at the pleased smirk of satisfaction on her face. She obviously knew they’d underestimated her skill because of her gender, and she was only too happy to prove them wrong. And yet, all that close attention drew Killian’s eye eventually from the lady’s appealing form and figure to what she was doing under all of their noses. Even at that, if he hadn’t been looking so closely he wouldn’t have caught what he now thought she was up to. A niggling feeling of troubled recognition crept into his mind, and he knew he would have to go and see if he was right, though he couldn’t rightly remember ever wanting so badly to be wrong before.

One by one, the woman took out the other players, slowly and methodically, as if she could sit there and play all night. There was nothing overtly suspicious in her game - nor her continued winning. Most card players firmly believed in getting “hot” or finding themselves on a lucky streak. Jones truly hoped that was all it was - that the forewarning he felt as he continued to watch was wrong. But then, she called a bluff, one that she shouldn’t have possibly been able to counter by his observant calculations, and as his eyes narrowed, he saw the slick move those playing with her had missed.

She was cheating them all - or he was almost certain of it - and masterfully so at that. No one but he seemed to be the wiser. Half of him was powerfully tempted to stalk over there, haul her to her feet, and drag her back to the jail with him. Grinding his teeth together so hard a muscle in his jaw twitched, Killian managed to hold himself back, but it was a near thing. That sort of chicanery - and money loss - was exactly what started brawls and ended with damages, injuries, and possible deaths. But he’d bide his time in confronting her; he didn’t want the players left at the table crying to have her strung up either.

Stalking purposely from the Nolans’ establishment out into the cool night air at last, he took long, ground-covering strides across the hard-packed earth to the other side of the street and up the steps to his jail. Pausing just before he reached the door, he called out in warning, “Hey Smee, it’s Jones! Don’t blow my head off!”

A moment later, the top of a rapidly balding head and the squinting eyes of a shorter-than-average middle-aged man peered out the barred window of the main door into the jail, revealing his other deputy and long time friend, William Smee. Killian had left him as lookout while he went to run errands and make sure all was squared away for them to hunker down in the jail the next several nights. Smee had an old injury which had left him with a hitching, unsteady gait and kept him from riding much distance or getting around very quickly, but he was as loyal as they came and took the guard duty Killian gave him as a second deputy with genuine seriousness - perhaps even a mite too much enthusiasm.

“Well, I ‘kin see it’s you! Quit yammerin’ and git on in here!” the man called back, sounding as if he were already fired up over something and in a foul temper. Normally the squirrelly little man with a gimpy leg and rather rotund belly was more deferential to Killian in his address, even taking to calling him ‘Captain’ playfully if Killian got too demanding or brusque in handing out each day’s duties to his men.

Huffing out a breath of half-amusement and half-annoyance, not sure which side to fall more squarely upon at that moment, Jones entered the jail, barely offering a greeting to Smee as he stepped back from raising the deadbolt to allow him entrance. “Has there been trouble?” he asked lowly, voice quiet so as not to alert Scarlet, who had returned and was sitting at the small table across the room from the cells nursing a whiskey he didn’t need, nor their prisoner, who would only delight in any sort of fear or disruption.

Smee shook his head, the whiskers on his jowls practically quivering. He followed his boss further into the room as Sheriff Jones moved toward the board full of active “Wanted” posters, hoping that his eyes would prove him mistaken in the conclusion that had formed in his brian. He knew the shorter man was moving with him from the distinctively off-kilter sound of his shuffle-hopped step on the rough hewn wood floor.

“If there’s no trouble, then what has you so trigger happy?” he asked idly, eyes still scanning the rough sketches before him.

“Well, I ...that is… I mean… you did tell me to stand guard. Make sure nobody unexpected got in here while you was gone,” Smee explained haltingly. “How’m I ‘sposed to do that if’n I don’t have myself ready to stop ‘em?”

A sigh escaped Jones as his eyes came to rest on just the confirmation he had hoped he wouldn’t get. Reaching out to snatch the offending handbill from the board with a rip of paper and growl of anger, he turned to storm back out. He should have known the second his interest was stirred… Romance had never led to anything good for him. “I’ll be right back,” he snarled, a quick glance over his shoulder showing Smee staring after him in confusion as he stalked back the way he had come.

It was the matter of only minutes to see him tromping back into the Nolan establishment, disgruntled, worried, angry, and disappointed. He shouldn’t have let himself feel that first moment’s intrigue; it could only lead to trouble. He had forced himself long ago - after the loss of his last family, and the brutal loss of his love as well - to accept that though he might have allies, acquaintances, folks in his corner he was friendly with, he was unloved and unloving in that bone-deep, consuming way that warmed a man’s life of the cold loneliness and mattered most to him in the end. Love had only brought him pain, and he had let himself start to toy with the notion again - only to be brought up short by reality once more.

Heading straight to the gaming tables, Killian found himself just in time to see the game his lovely mystery woman had been been a part of breaking up. The maddening blonde in question was just watching her final opponent walk away with a pleased twinkle in her eye, and as the man shuffled off, head down, shamed face hidden beneath his hat, and pockets much lighter from his loss, Killian couldn’t help shaking his head in disbelieving exasperation as she leaned over the table to scrape her heap of winnings toward herself, giving him an exceedingly enticing view as she did. While he was reluctant to admire the dangerous game she was playing, she was awfully good at it.

Waiting patiently, Killian made his way toward the bar, ignoring the tempting call of the appeasing oblivion he had often escaped into in the past from the libations on offer there. He carefully kept an eye on the intriguing stranger his handbill called “the Swan”, as he also attempted to blend in with the patrons until he was ready to make his presence known.

Once his target had gathered her winnings and begun to move from the room toward the stars, no doubt up to her rented night’s lodgings, Killian waited a mere handful of seconds before pushing away from the bar where he had been leaning with a feigned casual air before slowly crossing the floor to trail her. As he neared the foot of the building’s impressive staircase, he just caught the flash of her crimson garment disappearing around the corner to the second floor hall.

Hurrying up the steps as well, Jones moved with both as much speed and stealth as he could muster, needing to know which room his quarry entered. Thankfully, as he neared the top, he heard her low, smooth voice, the same one that had compelled him with its subtle lilt as she had greeted him playfully mere hours earlier, stopped in passing conversation with the inn’s proprietress. Mary Nolan’s chipper, sweetly inflected voice was easily recognizable as she asked if her guest had everything she needed. Killian looked about him swiftly for a place to retreat, knowing the friendly woman would give him away, or bar his passage for propriety’s sake, if she met him there in the hall, but thankfully as he dared a glance around the corner, Mrs. Nolan disappeared into another room with a basket of folded laundry in her arms, while the last swish of those charcoal skirts also caught Killian’s eye just before the door at the furthest end of the hall closed soundly.

Blowing out a short, decisive breath, Killian squared his shoulders and strode forward to that door. Readying himself, hand bill still clutched in his grip to make the accusation that was already burning on his tongue, the sheriff rapped decisively, steeling himself for the unpleasant confrontation ahead.

The door jerked open abruptly, revealing his card shark of a culprit already speaking to whom she must assume was the returning innkeeper’s wife. “As I said before, I’m really fine, thank you, Mrs. Nol - “ before her words trailed off, a flush climbing up her cheeks even as her eyes rose up his form assessingly until reaching and holding his own. She had clearly already begun her evening’s undressing, he thought with heat of his own on the back of his neck, as her hair had been loosed from its updo to cascade riotously around her face and down her back, and she stood before him in stockinged feet, her little heeled boots kicked off by the edge of her bed as his eyes quickly surveyed the room. The whole effect did make his breath strangle in his windpipe and he had to shake his head to clear it before speaking.  _ ‘Blast it all, Jones, keep it together,’  _ his inner voice berated him as he fought to gather himself. 

For her part, the newcomer had caught her breath sharply, staring back at him still wide-eyed. “You aren’t Mrs. Nolan,” she finally breathed with a flustered shake of her pretty head.

“Nope,” Jones replied, a part of him wishing he could simply be pleased by the fact that she seemed nearly as flustered as he was himself and leave the rest of his concerns behind. “In fact, can’t say as I’ve ever been confused for her before.”

A rueful smile crossed her perfect, full lips as she leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well then, Sheriff,” she teased, that mischeivous glimmer of her eyes showing once more, along with the dimple in her cheek. “Seeing as how you  _ haven’t _ come to offer me fresh towels or an extra blanket, what is it I can do for you?”

Killian cursed himself twice over for a fool as the reason he was standing at her door was pressed firmly to the forefront of his mind again. How was it that she could charm him so quickly that his purpose fled his memory in seconds?

Clearing his throat, rather uncomfortable accosting and accusing a woman so blatantly - even with the knowledge the “Wanted” poster provided, and the game play he had witnessed downstairs to back him up. False accusations could be made on the fliers, after all, and he wasn’t certain of what he had seen, only that it had looked like she’d cheated several people, quite soundly, at cards, just as the hand bill claimed she was wont to do. “Well, you see,” he offered, slowly holding up the paper with a sketched likeness of her face, her supposed crimes, and the reward offered for her capture up where she could see it clearly, and hating that he felt  _ he _ was somehow ruining the most enjoyable conversation he’d had in ages, he continued, “there is the matter of this bill.”

The beguiling vixen before him (whom the flyer deemed one “Emma Swan”) immediately transformed from pleasantly amused and curious to defensive and hurt - her spine straightening sharply, eyes sliding from his own, just glancing at the sketch of herself and then off to the side. Though she was almost sizzling, trembling with restrained affront and insult, Killian didn’t miss the wet sheen that glazed her lovely green eyes; the accusation clearly cutting more deeply than he would have expected.

“That blasted thing just won’t stop ruining me,” she hissed, quickly turning her back on him and withdrawing into the room, but not - he noticed, unaccountably pleased - ordering him out or slamming the door in his face as he had expected. He thought he caught a quick swipe of her hand that might have been trying to brush away a rogue tear undetected, but it happened to quickly to be sure.

Killian was about to step forward and explain himself, and why, though he hated to become an enemy he couldn’t let crime and theft fester in the town he sought to protect, when she caught him offguard once again. (Frightening how often this slender young woman managed that, really.) Where a moment prior vulnerability and a tinge of fear had painted her features, now a wall was up. She looked guarded and ready to fight; her eyes practically flashing in their fiery indignation as her hands found a place on her hips. “Did it ever occur to you that I might have been set up?” she spat, words coming so quickly that he couldn’t get a word in to argue as she stepped closer, nearly toe-to-toe with him. “I’m no cheat!”she continued to rail, both her passionate voice and the intense expression she wore daring him to contradict her. “Contrary to what you’ve clearly already chosen to believe.”

Not having expected her to rally with such vigor, Sheriff Jones was taken aback, but resolute to see his duty through now that he’d begun. Not to mention that a bit of his own native stubbornness and temper was riled now by her making him feel bad simply for doing his job. “Now, see here, Miss Swan,” he fired back. “That is your name, isn’t it? Emma Swan?”

She gave a sharp jerk of the head in confirmation.

His voice was roughened with feeling, letting more of his accent - never quite lost despite all the years between - making itself known as he pressed on. “I have an obligation to check out suspicious persons. The town and its citizens depend on me for their safety. It’s nothing personal, Swan - just my job. Of course mistakes can be made, but…” he wet his lips, the fire rolling in his blood not at all calmed by how close she was standing, her sweet, delicious scent of apple and -  _ was that cinnamon? _ \- nor the way her chest was heaving with her fit of pique. “But I did see you clean out all those solid players downstairs, in a game that went so fast it hardly seemed natural.”

She pursed her lips, as if considering for a moment, and then something like bitter resignation and almost melancholy swept over the anger and usurped control of her face. “And did it ever strike you that I just might be that good?”

The question stopped him cold. He really hadn’t, and now as well as the frustration, attraction and doubt, there was regret swirling in his mind. “Well,” he allowed, speaking slowly as he mulled over how to progress from there. “That was mighty skilled indeed then, Milady. I don’t supposed you’d want to roll up your sleeves and empty your pockets to prove yourself? Show me I’ve gotten you all wrong? Gettin’ hands like you must have been to clean them all out so easily would be best achieved by hiding cards on your person, aye?”

Rather than seeing his words as a chance to clear her name however, this Emma clearly took further offense. Arching a brow at him, she snorted indelicately, shaking her head as she took a step back so he could see her entire form clearly. “That easy for you, is it?” she questioned, gauging his intentions and deciding not to make his task easy. Her look was positively wicked as she stared right back, sizing him up before speaking. “See, I think you need to prove what you claim I’ve done. If you look at bit closer at that bill, you’ll see it says  _ suspected accomplice _ , and that the reward is for information, not capture. And I am certainly not about to admit a crime I didn’t commit.” She paused and gave a meaningful look down at the tight, corseted bodice of her dress and the skin bared at the neckline. “So, go ahead, Sheriff. You think I’m hiding cards? Search me.”

His mouth went completely dry at that - the issued challenge both hurting his pride and seeming all too inviting at once. But he wasn’t about to let it show, not if he could help it. Instead, he schooled his features and put a flirtatious tilt into his own smile as he took a step further into the room and closer to her. “Careful now, Darlin’...” he murmured, hoping he might just startle her into backing down. “I do  _ love _ a challenge.”

Instead of drawing back, that pert little chin tilted up defiantly, and Emma Swan met his eye without even blinking. She was calling his bluff, despite this being no card game, and Killian was about as tangled and turned around by the last few minutes as a newly roped and branded calf. He wasn’t even sure at present if he wanted to win or lose their standoff. Then, she moved closer still, her delicate, soft hand on his chest, and peered up into his eyes with an insouciant smirk. Cautioning him even as she reeled him in, she replied without missing a beat. “Be that as it may,” she winked, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to handle this.”


End file.
